


Finch's Afghan

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crack, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysteriously hideous afghan troubles Finch. Reese comes to the rescue.</p><p>First time, not explicit. Betaed by and dedicated to Esteefee.</p><p>With artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finch's Afghan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteefee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/gifts).



> It was inspired by a conversation I had with Esteefee when we were editing my fic, "Sandy is Not a Beach." When Reese was soaking wet and cold from the storm, I had Finch put an afghan over him. But Esteefee quite rightly pointed out that a billionaire genius with the taste and style of Harold Finch would never have anything so mundane as an afghan. He'd prefer a cashmere throw from the Neiman Marcus catalogue at least! This crack!fic is the result.

[](http://s259.photobucket.com/user/AprilValentine_bucket/media/afghantitlepic_zps581d9c20.jpg.html)

"Finch?" John asked as he strolled into the library. He was carrying a bag of groceries containing a new supply of Hot Pockets, Ramen noodles and some of Bear's special dog food, plus a package of Sencha green tea for Finch. As usual, it was gloomy in the library as Finch preferred to keep it dimly lit. With his arms full and the light so low, the normally sure-footed man suddenly tripped, dropping the bag and scattering Ramen, dog food and Hot Pockets everywhere. 

"What the hell?" Sitting up and brushing off his black suit jacket, John looked back to see what might have caused his fall. On the floor was a twisted pile of brown and orange. He couldn't quite tell what it was but the colors were hideous and seemed totally out of place in the library. 

Reaching out toward the thing, John's fingers encountered scratchy yarn. He managed to snag the article and pull it toward him. It proved to be a huge afghan, with row upon row of alternating brown and orange yarn zigzagging on for what seemed like forever.

Just then, Bear bounded into the room, wagging his tail in greeting and immediately sniffing at the dropped items. 

"Bear, no!" John spoke sharply as he noticed Bear biting into a package of Ramen. "That's not on your diet!"

He leaned over to take the forbidden food from the dog, resting his right hand on the yarn pile, only to start sliding forward as he put his weight on the afghan on top of the smooth floor. John ended up planting his face directly into the hideous afghan. Bear began barking as though he found John's ungainly sprawl funny. 

"Is there a problem, Mr. Reese?" Finch's strident tone penetrated over the dog barks.

John managed to sit up. "No. Why do you ask, Finch?" He would never admit to having fallen, any more than he would have admitted to Fusco he'd been in danger of losing a fight with a huge white supremacist, but he didn't think he could use the "just resting" excuse this time.

Walking closer and looking down at him sitting amongst the food items and the excited dog, Finch sighed. "I'm not used to finding you... on the floor," he responded, his tone managing to sound as though John had dragged in a dead body. "What are you doing down there?"

Maybe a variation of what he'd told Fusco, after all, John thought. "I thought I'd take a nap," he said dryly. "Since this afghan jumped out and made me trip on it."

He held up the offending object, or part of it anyway. It was so big that he couldn't really collect it all. Bear, thinking it was a new toy, tried to tug it out of John's hand. 

"Oh." Finch pronounced, his eyebrows climbing. He looked nearly as surprised to see the afghan as John had been. "That." He looked away, then turned partially back, glancing toward the thing from the corner of his eyes as though he didn't want to gaze at it directly. His lips pursed in disgust.

John managed to get to his feet. Surprised by Finch's reaction, he answered, "Yes, that. Where did this... thing come from?"

"Mr. Reese, I really don't know."

"What?" Bending to grab the afghan from Bear's mouth, John strode toward Finch. He held up the tangle of ugly yarn. "You don't know where this grotesque afghan came from?"

Finch shuddered and looked away. 

John changed his tone, knowing how sensitive his employer was about his secrets. "I'm not trying to pry, Harold. You know that by now. If there's some... problem, you don't have to tell me." He thought about Grace; maybe she could have made it for him. Then again, the woman was an artist. John really couldn't wrap his mind around someone with artistic sensibility creating something so hideous. 

"It's not that," Finch said, returning his gaze to John. "I just truly do not know how it got in here." His eyes were wide and fearful.

John went on alert. "Someone's been in here?" He drew his weapon, intending to start searching the premises.

Still, he wondered how someone would have managed to get in, given that Bear was there all the time to guard the place when he and Finch weren't there. And even if someone had gained entrance, why would they leave evidence of their visit -- especially something as bizarre as the disgusting afghan? Who would even break in somewhere carrying an afghan? 

"Mr. Reese, please," Finch said, stopping him with a hand pressed to the center of John's chest. "No one has been in the library. I haven't seen that afghan for a long time. I thought..." His voice trailed off as he stared at the unsightly item John was holding up. 

John was growing more worried by the moment. He shoved his gun into the back of his belt and clasped Finch's shoulder. The man was trembling slightly, his face pale. "You thought what?" 

Finch looked up at him, eyes large behind the lenses of his glasses. "I thought I'd... destroyed it!" 

The desperate tone went straight to John's heart. He'd never seen Finch look so apprehensive. Even the situation in the OR when he'd had to help the heart surgeon last week hadn't seemed to shake him this much.

"Harold?" Unable to hold back any longer, John pulled Finch close. He could feel the other man shaking against him. "I don't understand." 

Finch drew in a shaky breath. "I don't either." He shifted, side eyeing the afghan John still held. "Could you... put it down? Please?"

"Of course." He immediately dropped the offending object. "Can you tell me about it?"

Finch glanced down at the floor where the afghan lay, then closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When he spoke, he didn't meet John's gaze.

"It was a gift. A long time ago."

"A gift?" That was the last explanation he'd expected. John carefully turned as he stood holding Finch, putting himself between the afghan and his employer. He kept his voice soft, patient. "Who gave it to you?

"Just an old woman I met," Finch sighed. 

"Come on," John said soothingly, steering Finch out of the main room, taking him to the reading room where they kept the hot plate and small fridge, further away from the bizarre afghan. 

As they walked, Finch began to calm, pulling away from John slightly as he regained his composure. He pulled out a folding chair and sat down, rubbing his hand through his spiky hair. "I'm sorry, Mr. Reese," he began.

John pulled another chair close and sat opposite Finch. "It's okay, Harold." He rested his hand on Finch's shoulder once more. "Now, you were saying? An old woman gave it to you?"

Finch nodded. "A Mrs. Greene. I met her in... the convalescent home." As soon as he'd uttered those words, he pressed his lips together and glanced away, looking mortified. 

_The convalescent home..._ Reese could only imagine. He knew Finch had been seriously injured at some point but as yet still had no details. However, considering his limp and the limited range of motion of his neck, it was highly likely that he had spent some time in a rehab facility or convalescent hospital. John didn't acknowledge the slip Finch had made or ask further questions. Clearly, the sight of the afghan had upset Finch even more than John had suspected.

After a moment, Finch drew a deep breath and went on. "Mrs. Greene was quite elderly. She'd been there for quite some time and took it upon herself to befriend new patients." Finch shook his head as if picturing her. "She was what most people would call a 'little old lady.' Pleasant, understanding, wise. She would ask questions and offer insights. In some ways, she was very sweet." His face darkened and he glanced up. "But she was also somewhat... strange."

"Strange?" John repeated carefully. He didn't want to pressure Finch.

"She would say things that... hit a little too close to home. As if she knew more about people than she should. As if despite not having told her those details, she knew them anyway."

"Maybe she was just a good judge of people," John offered. He knew that anyone with unusual insight would have raised red flags for paranoid Finch.

"I thought so at first too. Then, I heard some stories... "

"Stories?"

"From other patients. Even the ones who'd been there the longest all said Mrs. Greene had been there before they came. They said she knew the names of the people in their lives... old loves from when they were young... children they'd never mentioned... things like that."

"You're saying she was... psychic or something?" John knew Finch was an empiricist, someone who dealt in cold hard facts and logic. Obviously, being told that someone had abilities that couldn't be explained through science would bother him.

"Nobody ever used that word," Finch went on, shaking his head. "But there were other things that didn't make sense. She told someone once that she'd had cancer when she was seventy five...when she lived in Los Angeles."

"She must have recovered, gone into remission," John said, wondering why that should have been considered unusual.

"But computer records... " Finch stopped mid-sentence, then began again, "Computer records showed that she was treated for cancer in L.A.... in nineteen seventy-nine."

The idea that Finch had researched her background wasn't as surprising as the concept that the woman was much older than John had imagined her to be when Finch had first started talking about her. 

"Nineteen seventy-nine? That was over thirty years ago."

"I know," Finch said, his voice sounding rueful, "either the computer records were wrong, or Mrs. Greene was actually over a hundred and five years old." He finally lifted his gaze to John's. "She was... old... and she knew things, John." His voice was shaking.

It seemed impossible, but Finch obviously believed that there was something... otherworldly about the woman. John considered that perhaps Finch hadn't been functioning at his peak while hospitalized; now wasn't the time to press Finch for details, but pain and medication would certainly muddle the best of minds.

Finch was breathing hard now, his eyes frantic. He grasped John's forearm tightly. "And John... " he gasped, shuddering, seeming unable to go on. John couldn't imagine what even stranger thing Finch was about to tell him.

"Harold," he said gently, "it's okay. You can tell me."

Finch bit his lip worriedly, then glanced up into John's eyes. "She... she _crocheted_... " He shivered again as his uttered the distasteful word.

"She what?" John didn't know what he'd expected to hear after Finch had implied that the woman was immortal and possessed ESP, but it wasn't that. He almost laughed out loud.

"She crocheted," Finch repeated, using a tone usually reserved for proclaiming someone had poisoned small children. "She sat in her wheelchair crocheting... all the time." Finch closed his eyes, quivering, looking as though he was picturing the old woman stirring a bubbling cauldron. 

John made an effort to suppress his amusement. "Lots of old ladies crochet, Finch. It's hardly unusual."

Finch's pale face looked as though he disagreed. "She'd... start in the morning and by afternoon... there'd be a whole afghan." He spread his hands wide as if to indicate the dimensions.

"She must have been good at it. You know, with a lot of... practice, I guess, making those things gets faster." John tried to be logical.

"You don't understand." Finch sounded defeated. 

John hated hearing the distress in Finch's tone but he didn't understand. He knew Finch wasn't afraid of old ladies who crocheted nor did he go around thinking people had supernatural powers. John owed the man his life and trusted him implicitly though. He would do anything for Finch, up to and including believing the story about the strange Mrs. Greene.

"Harold," John said with all the sincerity he possessed. "I'm trying to understand. Just tell me the rest of the story. Did she make that afghan?"

Finch nodded miserably. "She meant well, I suppose. She made them all the time, for everybody. Most people laughed at them. I thought they were just making up the stories about her being so old... or knowing things... because they were making fun of her." Finch sighed. As he started again, he glanced away, as if embarrassed by the words he was about to say. "She seemed to see that I was... lonely. She made me the afghan the second week I was there. She was so proud of it when she wheeled herself into my room and presented it to me."

"I'm sure she was." Reese really wasn't sure what else to say.

"But it was so... ugly." Turning back to meet John's gaze, Finch shuddered again, his mouth twisting in disapproval.

John called upon years of CIA training in an effort not to react. From what he had seen of the afghan, Finch wasn't wrong. 

"I admit, since I spent most of my life making money," Finch went on, "I've grown accustomed to nice things." He sounded as if he were admitting to having some bizarre prejudice for which John would censure him. "I prefer cashmere throws from the Neiman Marcus catalogue to... a hand made afghan crocheted from Red Heart Super Saver yarn." He glanced up at John. "It's _acrylic_."

"Maybe.... " John floundered, "that's all she had." 

Finch gave a dry laugh. "She bragged about buying it at a second hand store, six skeins for a dollar!" Clearly, to Finch, this was tantamount to serving wine that came in a box. Or worse. John bit his tongue to keep from reminding Finch that before starting to work for him, John had bought most of his own clothes from the Goodwill.

"And did you see the colors?" Finch asked. His gaze went past Reese as if trying to look at the afghan despite its being in the other room. His face suddenly paled. "Oh, no!"

John turned to follow Finch's gaze. Bear was approaching them, carrying the object of their discussion in his mouth. 

"Bear..." he called. The dog happily trotted over, dropping the afghan at John's feet. Next to him, he sensed Finch's recoil.

"Just look at it," Finch wailed. "Isn't it... appalling? It's brown... and _orange_. What person in their right mind crochets an afghan in those two colors when it's no longer 1978?" 

John had to agree that the afghan was singularly unattractive. It was done in a rippling wave pattern, bands of brown and orange alternating across it, with tassels at each of the four corners. It was snagged in a few places and he didn't know if those flaws were a result of Bear's teeth just now or if it had always been that way.

"She presented it to me," Finch continued in the same horrified tone, "and she expected me to... to use it. I had to keep it out in my room or she would have been hurt."

"That was very kind of you, Harold," John said. He was touched that the same man who had no qualms about ruining someone with a single keystroke had been unable to injure the feelings of an elderly woman.

"No," Finch contradicted. "I attempted to 'lose' it several times."

"I don't understand." 

"I put it in the trash and told her the laundry must have accidentally taken it. Somehow, the next day she came back to my room and told me she'd gone to the laundry and found it." 

"It could have ended up in the laundry," John suggested reasonably.

Finch nodded miserably. "That's what I thought too. At first." He heaved a sigh. "So the next time, I put it in the incinerator."

"But?" John already suspected the answer.

"There it is!" Finch gestured toward the ugly thing. "I tried and tried, having to continually make up excuses about what could have happened to it. But either Mrs. Greene found it and brought it back to my room or... "

"Or what, Finch?" 

"It just... reappeared on its own." 

John was silent a moment, trying to think of a logical explanation. "You said she was fast at crocheting... maybe she just made another one when the first one went missing." 

"I thought that could have happened," Finch said, "but I tried several times to allow for that. I tied on a thread I could use to identify it, put a dab of paint on one corner, even clipped some of the stitches... and it was always the same one."

John eyed his friend, noting his rapid breathing and wide eyes. His face was pale and John was close enough that he could feel him trembling. He put his hand on Finch's shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.

"Harold, you know things like that can't happen," he said softly. 

Finch nodded without looking at him. John couldn't tell if he were more embarrassed or scared now. 

"This happened when you... were in a hospital?" He told himself to tread carefully, not wanting to invade Finch's valued privacy but needing to put the story in context.

"It was a rehab facility," Finch said, his voice wretched. 

"So, you were on medication during that time?" John asked.

Finch nodded. Then he looked up. "I was," he said as if realizing for the first time that his judgment could have been clouded. "I was on a lot of pain killers and muscle relaxants. I... I could have been imagining things, couldn't I?" He asked the question as though grasping at a lifeline John had thrown him.

"It's a possibility," John said. He squeezed Finch's shoulder gently, hating the distress the other man was suffering. 

"I hate being drugged," Finch went on softly, "I couldn't think, couldn't function. I was always being... observed... questioned by the staff about my level of pain... my bodily functions... and... and... "

"It's all right, Harold." Unable to endure any more, John pulled Finch to him. "You don't have to talk about it." He could only imagine what that must have been like for a man like Finch, despite the irony of him doing much the same thing to every living person through the Machine. John wished he knew what had happened -- or been done -- to Finch, but now was not the time to ask more questions. The man needed reassurance. 

One of Finch's hands was gripping John's lapel tightly. John covered it with his own and rubbed at it gently. "I think you may have heard some stories from the other patients and had some dreams or visions of some kind and just thought you got rid of the afghan."

Finch shuddered but didn't pull out of John's hold. "Mr. Reese... my mind... it's all I have. If I can't trust it... "

"Harold, there's not a thing wrong with your mind," John said, pulling back to meet his eyes. "You're the most brilliant man I've ever met. Anyone would have had difficulty telling reality from fantasy when they were on heavy medication." And in terrible pain, both physically and emotionally, John didn't add aloud. 

Finch didn't answer, he just leaned against John, still holding tight to his lapel. He seemed to be breathing heavily, stressed by the memories and present concerns. As they sat together, Finch's breathing slowly calmed. After a moment, John moved away slightly. "I'll take care of this thing," he said, nodding in the direction of the afghan at their feet. "You just sit here and relax with Bear." He gave a short command to the dog to make sure he would stay with Finch, then bent to gather up the horrid afghan.

John took the disgusting thing into the next room and rummaged in a file cabinet for a trash bag. He stuffed the afghan inside and then hurried down the steps to ground level and outside where he tossed it into a city dumpster. Then, he returned to Finch.

Harold was sitting where John had left him, still looking a little shell-shocked. Bear was resting on the floor, his head pillowed on Finch's feet. When John entered the room, Finch looked up.

"Is it... gone?"

"Yes. I got rid of it." John went to fill the electric kettle, figuring Finch could use a cup of tea. 

"You're sure?"

He'd never heard the man sound so needy. "Yes, Harold, I'm sure." John returned to his side. "It's gone. You'll never see it again. You'll never have to think about it again." 

Finch nodded and looked away. John saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "I believe you," Finch said quietly.

"Good." The kettle boiled and he fix a cup of Sencha green tea for Finch, carrying it over to him. "Here, Finch," he said, offering it. 

Finch looked up and his eyes were grateful. "Thank you, John." He seemed to shake off the horror of seeing the afghan again. "I... appreciate your understanding."

John sat beside him again, stretching out his legs. "You've understood a lot of things I've said and done," he said. He wanted to put his arm around Finch again, reflecting that he didn't often get the opportunity to touch him the way he really wanted to. 

"Nevertheless," Finch went on, "most didn't involve hallucinations."

"We both saw it, Harold." He did reach out then, putting his hand on Finch's shoulder. "And so did Bear." He smiled softly at Finch. 

Finch nodded and sipped his tea. "You know, Mrs. Greene was quite the busybody."

"I never would have guessed."

"She was constantly matchmaking. Or trying to." Finch stared into his teacup. "Of course, she thought she could find a 'nice lady' amongst the other patients for me." 

John wasn't sure what to say to that. He figured that Finch had been mourning having had to leave Grace at that time.

"I think if she'd realized that I would prefer to meet... a gentleman... she would have been quite disconcerted." 

At those words, John was glad he wasn't drinking tea; he might have choked, or done a spit take. Instead, keeping his voice neutral, he simply replied, "I'm sure she would have. She doesn't sound like the type to think ... outside the box that way."

Finch placed his empty mug on the side table and turned to him. "Would _you_ be disconcerted, John?"

John didn't choke. But he didn't know what to say. He'd wondered, hoped, but...

"I mean," Finch said, "would you be nonplussed to learn that -- Grace notwithstanding -- that I prefer men?"

The hope in Finch's eyes made John's gut tighten. "No, Harold," he whispered. "not at all." He gathered both of Finch's hands into his own. "I'd be... glad."

He pulled Finch close against him and sealed their lips together in a hungry kiss. Finch responded and John decided that he was grateful to the strange Mrs. Greene and her afghan. Without it, Finch would have never opened up to John about what happened to him in the hospital... or about his interest in him as more than an employee. 

"Don't you think we'd be more comfortable if we got horizontal?" John asked eventually after he realized that, despite the pleasure of Finch's kisses, his back was beginning to ache from leaning forward in the hard backed chair. 

"I do believe we would," Finch said, sounding somewhat breathless. 

John stood and took his hand, leading Finch into the side room where they changed clothes and kept their first aid supplies. There was an old dark brown leather couch there and John had napped on it a few times. It creaked as he bore Finch down onto it now. He made love to Finch with all the tenderness he possessed, determined to make him forget about the deplorable afghan and all the bad times they'd suffered before they'd met.

Later, as they lay entwined on the warm old leather, John felt Harold smile, his lips curving as they rested against his chest. "You are very thorough, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his voice now mellow and satisfied. 

John kissed the top of his head, hugging him closer. "I assume that means you're feeling better now?"

"It does." Finch paused a moment, then shivered slightly. "Though it is becoming a bit chilly in here."

"I could warm you up again,"John offered, running his hands up and down Finch's back.

"You obviously have more stamina than I do," Finch said. He looked up, kissed John on the mouth and then began extricating himself from John's embrace. 

John helped him up and handed him his shirt, thinking that perhaps he should do a little online shopping. Finch had mentioned that he'd prefer a cashmere throw from the Neiman Marcus catalogue to the afghan Mrs. Greene had made him.

*****

A week later, John strode into the library feeling happy. He and Finch had been enjoying the new physical side of their relationship and this morning, the package he had ordered had arrived. It was an incredibly soft, cream-colored cashmere throw and he hadn't even minded paying four hundred and sixty dollars plus shipping for it. Finch had given him many expensive gifts and John felt it was time he started returning the favor. He was looking forward to seeing Harold's reaction to the gift.

Finch was not in his usual place at his desk when John entered their workroom, however. Neither was Bear. He strolled through the room, heading toward the break room, thinking Finch might be making tea or feeding Bear.

He wasn't in that room, either. "Finch!" John called out, not really concerned but wanting to find him nevertheless. They did have to be concerned with danger every day.

"John!" Finch called from the room where they'd made love the first time. Smiling, anticipating how good the throw would look on the couch, John hurried to find him, belatedly noticing that Finch's voice sounded troubled.

"Morning," he said as he walked through the door. Finch was standing with his back to John, facing the couch. Even from those few feet away, John could sense the tension in Finch's shoulders. Bear was standing at alert as well, obviously realizing that something was wrong.

"What is it?" John asked, moving toward him.

Finch turned, a look of abject horror on is face. "I thought you'd gotten rid of it!" he growled tensely.

John froze. In Finch's trembling hands was the disgusting brown and orange ripple afghan he had put in the city dumpster a week ago. The very same hideous afghan the mysterious Mrs. Greene had crocheted from her Red Heart Super Saver brown and orange acrylic yarn from the second-hand store.

John's blood ran cold. He had faced assassins, bullets, knives, bombs and torture, but for once in his life, he was truly scared. Finch hadn't been confused or hallucinating. 

The afghan was back.

*

_the end?_

[](http://s259.photobucket.com/user/AprilValentine_bucket/media/smallafghanillo_zps206518ca.jpg.html)

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Greene really appeared in the fourth season episode of Starsky & Hutch, "Black and Blue" in which Hutch was shot. As Starsky waited for news about his partner's condition in the hospital, Mrs. Greene offered her wisdom and support. A doctor told Starsky that Mrs. Greene was suffering from cancer and this episode aired in 1979. Her character appears occasionally in S/H fics where she is a matchmaker for Starsky and Hutch. She wasn't quite the strange creature Finch met, but maybe she hadn't started crocheting yet.
> 
> Oh, and the Neiman Marcus catalogue does charge that much for its cashmere throws like the one John bought Harold.


End file.
